


In the Very Center of Five Millions of People

by ColebaltBlue



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Elementary is really funny, Gen, Gregson & Lestrade get a beer, M/M, Percy is kind of an idiot, The Resident Patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/pseuds/ColebaltBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven billion people in the world - someone is bound to have a doppleganger out there.  A Dr. P. Trevelyan comes to consult at the behest of his resident patient, Blessington, to solve a break in.  But Holmes didn't accept the case, or bring Watson along, to investigate a break in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Very Center of Five Millions of People

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meredydd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/gifts).



> This could be considered a remix of The Resident Patient because of the extent I borrowed from it, including whole lines of dialogue and description - it's not so much a imagining as it is a retelling. The title is a quote from the original story that I thought rather fitting. To the point that I actually went back to the story and edited a more overt reference in. Many thanks to my would-be co-author who handled the corners I wrote myself into and some of the rather more excellent words contained herein. Compliant through Season 3, episode 18 (which is where I'm caught up to).

"While I am pleased that John Watson has decided to return to his memorializing my brother, I must say I find his revived blog to be just as incoherent as the previous. It is clear that he has difficulty picking out examples which will illustrate Sherlock mental peculiarities." Mycroft Holmes stated as he looked down at his iPad over breakfast.

"What's that?" Lestrade answered, mouth full of toast. It earned him a dark look.

"For those cases in which Sherlock has performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning, or demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves are so commonplace that I feel John is hardly justified in laying them out before the public. It is mundane."

"Let me see that," Lestrade said, grabbing the iPad out of Mycroft's hands. He scanned the story.

"On the other hand, it has frequently happened that he has been concerned in some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share which he has taken himself in determining their causes has been less pronounced than I-"

"Don't be so sure-"

"Less pronounced than I could be wished."

"That is not what you were about to say." Lestrade said with a smirk and handed the iPad back to Mycroft before standing and brushing the crumbs from his lap to the floor. It earned him another dark look.

"It may be that the business of which he is sure to write next will surely illustrate that while the part that Sherlock played is not sufficiently accentuated; yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable that I must hope that he does not omit it entirely from his little series."

"You only say that because it was your boyfriend who solved the case."

Mycroft's snort of amusement followed him out of the room.  
\--

"Well, I'm here now," Joan Watson said as she walked into the brownstone. Sherlock Holmes was curled up in a worn antique chair pulled in front of of the fireplace, staring at the soot-blackened bricks. He pointed to the table in the corner of the room without saying a word.

A planner lay on the table. Joan walked over to it and picked it up.

"You're going to have to use your words," she said.

"A doctor, a general practitioner," he replied. 

She leafed through it, there was no identifying information in it but the scribbled words spoke to appointments and shifts in a clinic setting.

"And he's come to consult us? I saw the car parked outside. There was a bag on the front seat, new, but practical and well suited for a young doctor just starting out. His coat was laying in the back seat. No scrubs or sneakers, so clearly not working a hospital setting."

"Very good, Watson. He'll return shortly, I'm sure. He arrived early, before you or I returned, and ducked out for a coffee at the bodega."

The door opened and a pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers poked his head around. "Oh! I am looking for Sherlock Holmes?" He said as he slipped around the door and shut it carefully behind him.

"Good evening, Doctor." Holmes said, leaping from his perch. "I am sorry to keep you waiting, but I see you have put your time to good use." He gestured at the coffee cup in the man's hand hand.

He looked perplexed for a moment. Then shook his head to clear it.

"My name is Percy Trevelyan," he began.

"Doctor P. Trevelyan?" Watson interrupted. "Of the article on anxiety in The New England Journal of Medicine?"

The young doctor looked surprised, but he flushed with pleasure. "Oh! Yes. I am surprised it was published, to be honest, my advisor was not optimistic of its chances-" He stopped himself and took a breath. "You are in practice yourself?"

"Retired." Joan responded with a wry smile. The man meant no offense. 

"I have always been interested in anxiety disorders and wish to make that my speciality, but I'm afraid I had to take what I could get first, loans, but that is not why I have come to consult Mr. Holmes and I am appreciative of how valuable his time is."

 

Sherlock stood and waved Dr. Trevelyan at the sofa. "As is Watson's. Sit, and please be as detailed as possible in your account of what circumstances have so upset you." Turned his chair and resettled.

"I was in a program where I received my doctorate along with my medical degree. I had finished my practical work and was engaged in a final year of research for my thesis. I was considering devoting myself full time to research and never entering practice when a man, by the name of Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me, arrived at my office hours."

"'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has won the research grant award recently?' he asked me, sitting himself in front of me and wringing his hands. 'Answer me frankly, you have the brains, but do you have the people skills to be a good doctor?'

"Quite frankly, I was shocked at his question. But I gathered myself. 'I'd like to think so,' I responded to him. He asked me a number of strange and rather pointed questions regarding my personal habits, before getting to the true reason of his visit."

"He wished to set me up in private practice. We'd share the profits, and I would provide him medical care, but I would be free to build a clientel."

Watson looked surprised and glanced at Holmes. "That's unusual," she said. "Especially for someone so young, and frankly completely inexperienced. But I see you accepted?" 

"I had to!" Trevelyan exclaimed. "The money! A house, the guarantee of connections to work in practice after I finished my contract with him. The upper east side! It just, it was perfect. I agreed and we were very successful, from the very beginning.”

Trevelyan paused, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. He took a long sip from his cooling coffee. Holmes stayed perfectly still. A feign of relaxation Watson had seen him use dozens of times. Not disinterest, but a deliberate holding back to give his client, or witness, or suspect, enough time to get to the crucial point. Joan smiled at the silent interplay. 

Again, Trevelyan spoke. “But that’s not why I came. Blessington came to see me a few weeks ago. He was upset, ranting about a break in nearby. He kept looking out the windows, talking about wanted to add more locks to the door. He was afraid, Mr. Holmes. Afraid for his life and when I tried to ask him about it, he got angry. He wouldn’t tell me any details.”

“But you’re not here about this house-breaking,” Holmes stated.

“No. A few days later, a new patient and his son came to see me. The man was old and had developed an anxiety disorder. During our exam, he had a panic attack. I left the room to get a sedative I thought would be helpful. When I came back, he was gone. And his son was gone from the waiting room.”

Trevelyan paused here, seeming amazed or confused by this part in his own tale. But an elderly man leaving a doctor’s office, seemingly under his own power or with the help of his son, was not enough to interest Holmes. Not by itself. Trevelyan needed to connect the threads from his strange arrangement with Blessington, the robbery, Blessington’s agitation, and this disappearing patient. 

It took a few beats of silence for Trevelyan to realize he wasn’t going to get a reaction out of either Holmes or Watson. He continued, “I didn’t mention anything to Blessington and I didn’t expect to see the old man or his son again. To tell you the truth, I have gotten in the habit of of talking to him as little as possible."

He paused again. "He was weird," Trevelyan muttered under his breath. Watson smiled at the exclamation. Trevelyan gathered himself again.

"The very next day, at the same exact time, they appeared again, exactly the same. He tried to explain that he was cloudy and confused - his words - after such an attack - again his words - and had left. I laughed it off and offered to continue the consultation."

"What was the son doing at this time?"

Trevelyan looked startled for a second, like he hadn't even considered it. "He was in the waiting room? I asked his father if he wanted his son to be in the consultation. It helps, you see, if he's confused, to have someone there that can explain things again later. But he said his father's illness upset him and he would wait."

"Hmm," Watson said, considering. "Go on."

"Well, they left a short time later." 

Trevelyan paused again and took another sip of his coffee. He looked down at it, almost as if he was startled by how much it had cooled and raised it to his lips, gulping for a moment. After looking at Holmes, who remained as still as ever, and at Joan, who smiled at him encouragingly, he continued.

"Mr. Blessington came home shortly after they left and went straight upstairs. Not an instant later he thundered back down the stairs and burst into my office, mad with panic.

"'Who has been upstairs!' He screamed at me. I assured him no one, and he accused me of lying before he grabbed me and dragged me up the stairs.

"There were dirty footprints all over his carpet, 'Do you mean to say these are mine?' he yelled, pointing at them. I'll admit that it was obvious from the beginning that they were not his. He had left before it had started to rain and the only people in the house besides myself was my patient and his son. It had to be them.

"But the strange thing was, absolutely nothing had been taken. Only the footprints, none of expensive electronics, antiques, or even the cash sitting on the table. Then, to my shock, Mr. Blessington collapsed right there, sobbing, hardly coherent, shaking, even terrified. He begged me to come to you, and now here I am."

\---

Lestrade sat up in Mycroft's bed, glasses on and laptop perched on his lap. Mycroft sat next to him, absorbed in his own laptop. With a big sigh and a last few clicks on the trackpad, Lestrade snapped the laptop closed and set it aside. 

"Out of all your cases, why does this one bother you so much? You solved it, apprehended the criminals, and they were brought to justice. And it made your career." Mycroft said, not looking up from what he was doing. Lestrade had long gotten used to his uncanny ability to observe, deployed with far creepier effect than his brother's. He knew the man enjoyed it. Immensely. And when in the mood to reap some rewards was happy to play along.

"The Worthington bank business?" 

"Mmm."

"It wasn't really my case," he responded, settling in and brushing his toes against Mycroft's legs.

"Semantics, but interesting response regarding the case, as I just mentioned, that made your career."

Lestrade reached under the blankets and slid his palm over Mycroft's thigh. He received a raised eyebrow in response and the barest hint of a smile. Excellent. 

"Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat were released yesterday."

Mycroft was silent. Lestrade was sure he was more than aware of that fact. Especially as it was now clear that he had at some point researched Lestrade's past cases and decided that one in particular "made" him. He tapped his fingers on Mycroft's thigh and suppressed a smile at the slight furrow of annoyance that appeared on his brow.

"Just curious as to what this means for Sutton," Lestrade finally said.

"I suspect we'll soon learn whether or not he has managed to erase all traces of his former self and successfully shed his identity for a new one."

"You don't sound optimistic."

Mycroft snorted. "The man turned Queen’s evidence for less than half a million pounds split five ways on a gang that was capable of murder that was only sentenced to fifteen years. No. Optimism is not what I am feeling for Sutton."

Lestrade grinned. At the time he was unsure what Sutton was doing in the gang in the first place. He was the furthest thing from a harden criminal or bank robber capable of murder. He had sat sweating and wringing his hands in interrogation for a matter of hours before agreeing to the first deal offered to him. 

He stroked his hand further up Mycroft's leg, intent on his destination, and was reawarded with a twitch as he cupped him. Mycroft continued to ignore what he was offering for a few moments, clicking away on his laptop.

"Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat have slipped their quite frankly appallingly lax surveillance. I expect we'll hear from the NYPD soon enough," he said, snapping his laptop closed and tossing to the side. He slid down the bed and faced Lestrade. "Now, what did you have in mind?"

Lestrade grinned and rolled on top of him, pinning his wrists to the bed.

\---

Joan looked at Sherlock, who had listened to the entire narrative with an intentness that betrayed how keenly intrigued he was by it. His expression was impassive and his body perfectly still, but years of experience had taught her that this betrayed a deep concentration, mind complete devoted to listening and refusing to allow the body to distract with even so much as a twitch.

Without a word he sprang up, startling poor Trevelyan and making Joan roll her eyes. She took her jacket that Sherlock was waving impatiently at her and gestured Dr. Trevelyan towards the door.

"Forgive him, he does enjoy the dramatic. But why don't you drive us back to Mr. Blessington's. We'd like to speak with him."

The drive was short in the midday traffic lull, back to Trevelyan's practice. It was on a quiet and unassuming street with a simple placard out front and nothing to betray it as anything other than a respectable medical office.

Trevelyan bounded up the steps, but Sherlock stood back and considered the building. 

"Sherlock?" Watson asked.

"Interesting…" he muttered before heading up the steps. He stopped on the top step and turned back to her. "Tell me, Watson, what are your instincts telling you?"

"That the patients were frauds, Dr. Trevelyan is too inexperienced despite his research interests to recognize that, and his mysterious benefactor clearly has an ulterior motive to his generosity."

"Very good. Now, onwards and upwards to determine if my suspicions are correct."

They followed Trevelyan in through the front door and ran right into the man. He was frozen in the doorway, staring up the stairs. 

He startled when Holmes and Watson knocked into him. 

"I'll shoot anyone who comes in this house, Trevelyan, I will do it and I will be in the right for it." Blessington called down the steps, voice strained and wavering. He stood in the shadow, but the outline of a gun clearly aimed at the three people standing below was visible.

Trevelyan whimpered.

"This is quite outrageous, Blessington," Holmes called out.

Everyone paused, conscious of the long scrutiny by the man holding a gun at the top of the stairs.

"Yes, yes, all right," Blessington said at last. "You may come up." He set the gun down and turned the lights on as they climbed the steps.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," he said. He eyed Joan for a bit longer, but seemed to decide she was to be trusted and turned back to Holmes. "No one has needed your help more than I do."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are the two men, Mr. Blessington, and why are they here?"

Blessington turned white. "Who? Mr. Holmes!" He turned to Joan, as if to implore her to reason with Holmes. "Who, I hardly know. Come, come, let me show you."

He led them into his bedroom and showed them his safe. "I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes. But I don’t believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can understand what it means to me when people force themselves into my rooms."

"I can't help you if you lie to me." Holmes responded.

"But I have told you everything! Someone is trying to rob me, Holmes. You must help me!"

Holmes turned to Trevelyan. "Good night, doctor, best of luck with your practice, but I might suggest a bit more time under the tutlage of another doctor before striking out on your own, Watson here might be able to recommend a few." Without even a glance back to Blessington he marked back down the stairs and out the house.

Blessington's protestations followed him out. He turned to Joan, eyes imploring.

"My only advice is to seek us out when you're ready to tell the truth."

She followed Holmes out the door and a minute later they were walking back towards Holmes's brownstone. 

"I apologize for the fool’s errand, Watson, it is such an interesting case and I had hoped Blessington would be more cooperative."

"So you have it solved?" she asked.

"From the very beginning. But I had an advantage over you - I am well aware of who Blessington is and the likely identity of his visitors."

Joan stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "What? How could you possibly know that?"

"I lived in London fifteen years ago."

"What?" 

"No time to explain, Watson, a man's life may be in danger."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Gregson, and perhaps a call to Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard."

"Lestrade? I thought that-"

"No, no, not Lestrade, Lestrade. With a soft A, ah, aaaaah sound, Lestrade. Different man entirely, wholly competent at his job, if a bit led around by his boyfriend. Still, useful."

"You mean to tell me that there are two inspectors named Lestrade in London? And you've worked with both of them?"

Holmes scoffed. "It's a rather large force. In a rather large city. I am sure you are not the only Doctor Watson, nor I the only Sherlock Holmes out there."

With that he whipped out his whistle and hailed a cab. Joan just rolled her eyes.

\---

Joan awoke with a start. Holmes was hovering over her, face illuminated by the screen of his phone. 

"Ah! You're awake, excellent," he whipped the phone around and shoved it in her face. 

_come at once!_ read the text under Trevelyan's name.

"We talked about this," she said, squinting up at him. 

"No, you talked about this. I listened. But I'm choosing to ignore you because this is important."

"Sleep is important," Joan grumbled as she dragged herself out of bed. 

Half an hour later she stood on the steps of Trevelyan's practice and dodged a young police man sleepily guarding the door. He nodded her in.

"He's hanged himself!" she could hear Trevelyan saying as she climbed the stairs towards Blessington's room.

"Ah Watson, as you can see-" Holmes said, as if she were not merely just behind him. He gestured to the body hanging from noose fashioned with a rope in the bedroom. "Lestrade should be here shortly."

"Holmes! Would you please have your NYPD let me in the door!" A voice bellowed from downstairs. Watson stepped out and nodded to the sleepy patrolman. A fit, gray haired, smooth faced man in a black over coat and a suit bounded up the stairs two at a time. 

"Inspector Lestrade," he said, offering his hand to her. "Doctor Joan Watson, I'm a colleague of Sherlocks."

He looked at her funny. "Of course you are." But smiled and nodded politely.

"We'll I'll be damned," he said, stepping into the room and looking at the body. "About seven stone lighter, and his neck drawn out like a plucked chicken's, but I'll say that's him."

At that moment, Captain Gregson appeared on the landing. He nodded and greeted Holmes and Watson. 

"Who's this?" He asked Holmes, jerking his thumb at Lestrade.

"Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. He's been after your murder victim. I did him the courtesy of letting him know he was here in New York yesterday and Lestrade came right over. Unfortunately, his cunning plan to hide in the very center of eight and a half million people did not work and the others got to him first."

"Lestrade? I met a Lestrade of Scotland Yard, a year or so ago? This isn't him."

Holmes looked annoyed. "No, Lestrade, ah, not Lestrade, aide. Two completely different men."

Gregson looked at Watson who shrugged, he rolled his eyes and turned to Lestrade.

"Captain Gregson, NYPD. You know my vic?"

Lestrade nodded. "I can't confirm it, but he looks an awful lot like a member the gang that did the job in London fifteen years ago, Sutton. He turned Queen's evidence and was given a new identity. Three of his former associates were released from prison a few days ago."

"Him?" Gregson looked at the man hanging in the center of the room. "I saw the alerts come across the wires last night, but I thought the one that turned evidence was fat!"

Lestrade pulled a photo from his pocket and handed it over. "Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing to the room. Gregson motioned him to go ahead as he studied the photo, holding it up to see it beside the hanged man. He handed it to Watson. 

"We'll get our ME office to run his the records, so far he had checked out as Blessington," Gregson said as he stepped aside to let the man in question in. He kept a firm eye on Lestrade.

"Have you solved the case, Holmes?" Lestrade asked as he bent over and examined something in the fireplace.

Holmes looked perturbed for a moment, then slightly resentful. "I'm well aware my cousin would be busy prancing about like a peacock, but I do not believe in… showboating." 

Lestrade snorted in response and looked unconvinced. Holmes looked even more perturbed. Watson looked between them, confused.

"His cousin, Sherlock, solves cases as a "consulting detective" in London," he said, as if that explained everything.

"Is Sherlock a family name?" Joan asked, turning to Holmes who looked offended at the suggestion.

"No, Sherlock is MY name. His is William, but he insists on using his middle name, and billing himself as the world's greatest consulting detective. Arrogant bastard." 

"You won't find me arguing with that sentiment."

"You're dating his brother and hardly have room to talk."

Lestrade looked more amused than offended.

"Let me guess," Joan said, dryly, "Mycroft?" She threw her hands up in exasperation at Lestrade's nod and sly grin. 

"This is the life you chose, Joan," she muttered under her breath. "What did you expect?"

Lestrade’s grin grew. “You should an awful lot like someone else I know in London.” 

"It's not suicide," she said, changing the subject, eager to get away from any more across-the-pond similarities to her already strange life. "It's murder, by three other men, with at least one other on the inside who let them in the house."

Lestrade looked surprised and impressed. Gregson was as impassive as ever. 

"When this is over," he interrupted before Watson could continue, looking at Lestrade. "You and I are getting a beer." He received a grin and nod in response.

\---

Gregson stepped up to the bar and lifted two fingers in the air and gestured at Lestrade and himself.

"They found the medical assistant who let Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat in the house last night. He was hiding out at his cousin's on Long Island," he said. 

Lestrade nodded and examined his beer closely when it was set down in front of him.

"Did you need something harder?" Gregson asked, eyeing Lestrade.

"Nah, just trying to figure out why Americans seem to be so obsessed with lagers."

Gregson snorted. "Don't be a snob."

"Cheers," Lestrade replied with a smile before raising his glass and taking a health gulp.

"So it's a family affair, detecting?"

"No, but they're all creepy, the lot of them, with how they know things. I've actually only met your Holmes once, fifteen years ago, he offered me some insights regarding the case. It made it easier when I busted his cousin for drugs and he told me my ex was sleeping with her personal trainer."

"How was that easier?"

"Oh, I believed him. I may have punched him, but I believed him. Still, took me too long to divorce her."

"You punched him?"

"Yeah, you haven't punched yours?"

"No."

"What's stopping you? Yeah, he seems a little less arrogant than the other one, but he's still a Holmes."

"Mostly, it's because of Watson." Gregson paused, and considered. "I figure that she'll take care of it. And she wouldn't appreciate it."

"Fair point." 

"Does he abuse your detectives?"

"I think he actually likes Bell quite a bit. And he only calls them idiots when they're actually being idiots. Getting Bell shot and that whole mess certainly changed his perspective on my team."

"Huh. Sorry about your detective."

Gregson shrugged. It was in the past now. 

"If I hadn't seen it done over and over again, I'd wonder how they got all that from a couple of cigar ends and a screwdriver and some screws. And Watson too - solving it. That's something that MY Holmes would never stand for."

"Watson? Really, she's brilliant. Best thing that ever happened to Sherlock Holmes. It was quite a clever set up though, that mock trial staged for Sutton and then the execution."

"Yes, but how she got there so quickly!"

"He's trained her well."

"When she explained it, it certainly made sense, the cigars being different makes and one end cut while the others were chewed. Knowing that they got in through the barred front door. The use of his own rope, impressions on the floor and wicker chairs. I just haven't seen anyone other than a Holmes do that so masterfully."

"Still impressive, is it?"

Lestrade shrugged. He hoped he didn't sound like a star-struck fresh young copper, but meeting Gregson, Holmes, and Watson certainly was entertaining. 

"So tell me, Captain," he said with a sly smile. "What's the weirdest thing he's done in pursuit of a clue?"

Gregson huffed a laugh, "Well, there was that one time I found him in the basement of his brownstone, big carcass strung up. He was lunging at it with a axe, completely covered in blood."

Lestrade shook his head. "I have a feeling these stories are going to be too similar to be amusing. Mine rode the tube covered in blood and still carrying the harpoon. Let me tell you about Watson's bachelor party and the case Holmes tried to solve drunk…"


End file.
